


Wounds

by HappinessIsBlau



Category: Batgirl (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:37:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappinessIsBlau/pseuds/HappinessIsBlau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s something about a nosebleed that is just worse than a lot of other wounds. </p><p>Example being, when your nose gets busted and it bleeds, well, that blood drips down your lips and in your mouth and off your chin and gets everywhere, even if you aren’t getting the shit kicked out of you in an alley. </p><p>Right, Tim?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> I have no medical knowledge whatsoever. I apologize to anyone who does and who reads this, because it is probably really cringeworthy.

_There’s something about a nosebleed that is just worse than a lot of other wounds._

_Example being, when your nose gets busted and it bleeds, well, that blood drips down your lips and in your mouth and off your chin and gets everywhere, even if you aren’t getting the shit kicked out of you in an alley._

_Right, Tim?_

_Okay, sure, I should be concentrating on the fight at hand. Some third-rate assassin from China hired by Two-Face to kill me for screwing with a drug-trade he had set up with Poison Ivy. I hate how buddy-buddy these guys in Gotham have been getting lately._

_Instead of focusing, I keep thinking. I keep talking to myself. And that’s when I notice that I probably have a concussion. Shit, that’s just what I need. Something in my gut just clicks and I realize that if I don’t get my shit together, this might be the end of Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, and that makes my vision clearer._

_Just a little._

_I can make out some features of this assassin. He’s been calling himself “The Machine” or some other completely unoriginal title. I’m hating myself for getting so beat up now. I’ve taken on the Joker himself, why is this asshole messing me up? It must be that spat that I had with Dick earlier._

_“You need to take better care of yourself, Tim,” I whisper under my breath, echoing Dick, as The Machine’s head collides with the pavement. Job well done, I suppose._

_I can’t go to the cave. I don’t want to have to explain to Alfred or … Bruce. I’ll just go home and lick my wounds like—_

_“A wounded puppy. You look like a wounded puppy, Tim! Why didn’t you call me?”_

_Great. Just who I wanted to see tonight._

_“Steph, seriously –“No names in the field, Boy Blunder. Do you want to get us killed or something? And why are you slurring your words so bad? Don’t tell me you’ve been hitting the drink or something. I never thought of you to be the type.”_

_That was a joke. She’s always cracking jokes when she’s worried, like Dick does. In fact, she probably got it from hanging around him so much. Since she’s got it in her head that she’s going to be Lady Nightwing or something, those two have been spending lots of time together. I’d be jealous if we weren’t engaged._

_She walks closer, and her smile fades. She’s probably taking note of my nose being busted. I crack it back into place, and cough a bit. That never gets any easier, and it still hurt like a bitch from the last time I broke it. “Jesus. Who ganged up on you this time? The Joker? I swear to God, you have a deathwish or something.” She tries to make it sound more scolding than it really is, as she shoots a line to a roof and pulls me along for the ride._

_When she’s sure there’s no cameras around, she pulls up my cowl. I know what she’s doing—she’s checking for a concussion. And by the exasperated sigh, she finds what she’s looking for. “You need to stop proving me right. I need to get you back to the cave—“No! Steph, God, no. Not the cave. Just take me home.”_

_She hesitates a moment, but then she gives in. Her med training will come in handy tonight, unless she calls someone. Probably Alfred. Though, by the time we’ve swung to my apartment, I’m feeling fainter than ever. Almost too faint to climb into the window, which isn’t good. Means I lost a lot of blood. One glance down at my arm tells me that I should be even more worried, because I didn’t feel that bullet at all._

_Steph is gentle, as always, when propping me up on my bed. I’ll have to get new linens, now. Oh well. She peels off my armor, piece by piece, and kisses my jaw. “Does anything hurt?” I shake my head. It really doesn’t, but the room is spinning. “I’m dizzy…” is that my voice? It sounds like I’m hearing someone else talk._

 

Wowee, Tim sure is a joy when he’s concussed. I’ve been here before, though. I mean, I’ve known him for five-ish years so yeah, I’ve seen him at his best and his worst. Worst being beaten to a bloodier pulp than this, but he is looking quite rough currently. 

He’s dizzy. Ok, yes, I know that. He’s dizzy and he has a concussion, he’s got at least one gunshot wound to the arm and I know for a fact he’s gonna have quite the black eye tomorrow. A kiss to his cheekbone isn’t gonna solve that one, I’m sorry to say. It just gets me a “Steph…” that sounds a little bit more worried than he wants it to. Okay, Brown. Think it out. 

First thing I do, after I leave the room to go to the kitchen (man am I parched!) is call Alfred. I know Tim is gonna be pissed at me, but I’d rather him get treated for something that I can’t deal with, and he be mad, than him dying. Alfred assures me that he’ll be there and he’ll take care of it. 

I snap my communicator shut and put it in one of my belt pouches, before I pull Tim’s desk chair over next to his bed and sit down. My back hurts and my legs are killing me. The heels of my feet are on fire, but hey, I love what I do. 

“You should… change your clothes,” Tim starts. I can see the way that the city lights from Gotham shine in his windows and reflect off them baby blues. He’s such a stud. I won’t take him up on the offer of a shower and leave him until Alfred gets here, though. I put my hand on his forehead, and he’s clammy. And still has blood all over his face, that’s kind of undignified. So I walk to the bathroom and get a damp towel to scrub him up with. It’s the least I can do for him, since I won’t be very helpful when Alfred is doing his magic. Tim frowns, but he doesn’t try to push me away. I can feel the heat in his cheeks, and that’s thanks enough. 

I hear Alfred come in the front door. “In here, Alfie!” I chime, and nod at the British man as he walks in. He nods back. “Good evening, Miss Brown. Hello, Master Timothy. How are you feeling?” I can tell that Tim isn’t one for small-talk, but he’s been through this a million times, so I listen to their conversation and wait for a break.

“Okay, Timbo. I’ll be right back, and if any super ninjas or something climb through your window, yell for me, kay?” He snorts at me. And that’s a good sign. I’ll rub it in my by stealing some of his clothes, rather than the civvies I keep here. A pair of his boxers and a hoodie I know that he stole from Dick sound really nice right about now. 

 

_I hear the shower start, and I’m kind of relieved that Steph isn’t in the room anymore. I know she feels sorry for me and I don’t want her to because it was my own idiocy that got me into this mess. She shouldn’t have called Alfred, either. I’ve been though worse, and I’ve recovered from worse on my own._

_Okay, that last part’s a lie._

_She still shouldn’t have called him._

_“Master Timothy, you look to be deep in concentration,” Alfred notes, an eyebrow raised in his “amused” sort of voice. I just put on my best Tim Drake half smile (and note, it isn’t the Timmy Wayne smile that I give cute girls. Don’t tell Steph I thought that) and I sigh. “Yeah, well, I kind of almost ended up on the losing side of that fight.”_

_And then there’s silence. Me and my big mouth. I know Alfred dreads it, ever since Jason died, then Babs got shot and… urgh. I shouldn’t feed his worry. “I mean, I didn’t though. So—“Master Timothy, you need not worry about me. I have faith in you and your abilities, just as Master Bruce does.” That’s Alfred-speak for, “I can totally read your mind, Tim, and shut up.” So I shut up, and I try to focus on the sound of water running. It’s… calming._

 

When I come back, Tim is sleeping soundly and Alfred seems to have bandaged him up. “What’s the prognosis, doc?” I whisper, trying not to disturb sleeping beauty, but I know Wayne men like the back of my hand—or, uh, I know this Wayne man like the back of my hand—and he sleeps like a rock when he’s like this. When he’s safe.

 “Master Timothy received a concussion, a broken nose, and a shot to the arm along with minor cuts, scrapes, and bruises. However, his nose has been reset and I retrieved the bullet from his arm. His concussion was very mild, and he is perfectly stable at this time,” “I don’t think he noticed the bulletwound, though. I heard him mumbling something about that…” “Adrenaline, most likely, Miss Brown.” 

I trust Alfred. He’s been doing this for years… patching up Bruce-sters and Dickie since I was like, three or something. “Thanks for coming down, Alfs. Say hi to the guys at the manor for me,” and Alfred just hums, giving me one of his Alfred hugs (that I’m positive to return. Surrogate grandpa, much? In a good way, obviously!) and when I hear the door close and lock behind him, I slide into bed next to the wounded dude who is gonna be my husband in about four months. 

He sleeps so calmly, and I’m not going to purposely be a huge pain and wake him even if he is lying right in the center of the bed and I’m pushed off to one side. I do kiss him goodnight, though, and his lips are soft and warm like they should be. Tomorrow, he’ll be bitching at me for calling Alfred and bringing him waffles at noon when he should have been woken up at 4am (nevermind that it’s 2 now) and gotten to work. I’ll slap his arm, his bad one just to make him flinch, and then make up to him by getting my mom to bake some of those dumplings that he likes so much as a get-well-soon gift. 

Wounds can be cleaned and prides can be mended, and for right now everything’s okay.


End file.
